It began serenely enough,
I started writing poetry in the park. You know
a quatrain or a metaphor – just to relax.
Eventually, one poem
after another emerged
and rapidly, I was more
than just an occasional
writer. I commenced to
seek solace frequently
through verse -to unwind,
I expressed to myself.
But I saw the lie
for what it was.
Poetry became increasingly imperative
to my sanity. Soon, I was writing poetry
unceasingly.
That’s when disharmony began at my abode,
my delicate wife and I finished
a decidedly bland television program,
I shut the foul device off,
and decided to regale her with written entreaties
of my love poetry.
She sallied to her
mother’s domicile.

At my place of servitude, I started writing
epics and pantoums on errant
scraps of paper.
Eluded fellow workers
for poetry writing marathons.
My employment overlord requested
my presence and uttered these
dire warnings:
“Hey buddy, you’re a nice guy,
but your damn poetry writing
is getting out of hand.
If you don’t stop writing on the job,
you’re fired!”

This caused great
consternation and much
therapeutic writing from me.
I imparted my concerns to
my matrimonial dove,
“Dear flower, I’ve been writing about-”
“I know you’ve been writing,” she exclaimed,
with much pouting and tears,
“You write as much as those Beat Generation poets
or those slam poets, and they’re poor as shit…
so if you don’t stop writing,
we won’t have any damned money!”

I replied, “That is as incoherent a metaphor
as seagulls swimming in deserts-”
and she exploded in hysterics and expletives.
But I was in no villanelle of mind
for the violent vitriol,
“I’m traversing to the poetry reading!”
I bellowed.

I squealed the vehicular chariot
up to the coffee shop,
in a ranting, raging free verse mood
for poems like Howl by Allen Ginsberg
or What Teachers Make by Taylor Mali,
but the coffee shop was closed.

Even now, I count how
the stars aligned that evening.
Lying prone before the coffee shop doors,
whimpering for a little Bukowski,
some Walt Whitman,
a billboard drew my
crying eyes:

“Loser, is poetry corrupting your brain?”

You may discern the quote
from a popular advertisement
for Poets Anonymous.
It was fortuitous, as now I am
evolved into a new,
more brain-dead version
of myself:
a recovering poet.

We Poets Anon intersect nigh
each week and extol
upon efforts to deny
any verse constructs or
fey sentence structures
through boisterous football
or mindless drinking games.

The connubial den is improving,
and I remain a slave to the overlord,

existence appeared less convoluted
as soon as I denied
the muse and her trappings.

Today, my journey seems complete
for my peace of mind,

I jumped into the black maw
and merged with the
vacuous Republican Party.

One more poet
points the finger
at blooming flowers
that jiggle and shake
inside green boxes
resting on window sills.

They outrank
the birds who caw
at continuum’s
injustice,
shaped in Plexiglas.
Continuum fights
off the holy, clinched fingers
attached to hands,

attached to arms
of Madre de Dios
who cries and begs
humanity with such questions as:
“What do you want today?”
“The world,” we say.
“We’re just civilians
who pour syrup in the Cheetos.
A weakness we find
very comfortable.”

Madre cries,
sobs,
implores
Her children
for help,
for release
of our toxic fumes,
poisonous hate
we clothe Her in,
force Her
to wear,
ill-fitting as these
vestments are.

Soon,
She’ll grow tired
of the rags,
that poison.
She’ll shake it off,
the infection,
humans.